I'm Sorry
by InLoveWithDarren
Summary: I was consumed by the my feels from 4x04 and this came about... Blaine is really, really, sorry, and he feels numb, what can he do now? He's ruined everything because of stupid Eli. Blangst Spoilers up to 4x04 Trigger Warning: cutting, character death


**I'm really sorry about this, but I... well, I have no excuse for this really...**

**Trigger warning! Self hatred, cutting, character death**

* * *

_I'm so, so sorry, Kurt. I never meant to hurt you and now look what I've gone and done. I'm sorry__.  
__-Blaine_

_Blaine please, I need time to think this through, just…__I just feel horribly violated right now and… well, yeah…  
__-Kurt_

_I'm so sorry, you won't have to worry about me again. I hate myself for what I did to you, Kurt. I'm so sorry.  
__-Blaine_

He stared at the words he'd written on the screen, vision blurred by tears, as he pressed the 'send' button.

_You won't have to worry about me again._  
_I hate myself.__  
__**I hate myself.**__  
_**I hate myself.**_  
_  
He hadn't noticed until his leg became slightly damp, but as he went to wipe his tears away, he saw the red droplets oozing from his skin.

The razor in his right hand pressed in tightly, his wrist painful and he could _feel_. He could feel after a week of being numb, a week of hating himself and spending afternoons, evenings curled up in bed, tears flowing because of _Kurt_, and for _Kurt_, and in spite of _Kurt_.

Kurt was who Blaine was, so when Kurt wasn't there, who was Blaine? What could he do? Kurt wasn't there and he fucking needed him!

Another jolt of pain as skin split once more, and suddenly the scarlet filly his sight felt calm, peaceful. A steady drip, _drip_, _drip_, his white sheets patterned red in a sickeningly pleasing manner.

It was relieving, feeling the blood drain out slowly, like he steadily was becoming more and more numb, and the emotions, the pain, were all leaving along with it.

But the pleasure of the slicing became less and less, so he continued, more, more, until he really _saw_. He saw an arm, his own arm, once smooth, now unknown, drenched in a plethora of blood.

He carefully made his way to the ensuite bathroom he was blessed with, and ran his arm under the hot tap, the hot - nearly boiling - water a welcome pain against his wounds. He saw the criss-crossed hashes on his arm and, in that one moment, he thought he'd never seen anything more beautiful.

He still felt light headed as he continued to watch the stream of water turn red as it made its way down the plug hole.

Then, breaking his thoughts, he heard the tell tale ring of 'pretty _pretty please, don't you ever, ever feel…_' and Kurt.

Fucking Kurt.

He moved on auto pilot, his brain completely disconnected from his hands as they carved 4 letters into his arm, large, obvious.

**KURT**

Now he could never forget. Would never forget.

And again, **Kurt**. Smaller this time, but no less significant.

**Kurt**, on his wrist, on his hand, his stomach, his thigh. Anywhere he could find, anywhere Kurt had been, had kissed, was covered in his name, and it was beautiful.

He heard the faint _ping_ of the razor clattering to the floor, then nothing.

* * *

I've had enough of fucking space, now. Kurt decided.

Blaine hadn't been answering his phone all weekend, and now Kurt was just getting annoyed, so, without thinking, his feet directed him to the door; his arms hailed a cab; his voice shouted "the nearest airport" and that was that.

By the time Kurt had truly understood what his subconscious had done, he was already on a plane, hours after his decision to call Blaine, and destination: Columbus, Ohio.

Kurt was worried. Kurt was extremely worried; in fact, worried didn't even begin to cover it.

He knew Blaine's parents were out on business this week, so Blaine was home alone, but Blaine always answered the house phone. And his mobile. And Blaine wasn't answering either. Not to Kurt's mobile; or that of the stranger who sat next to him on the plane; or to the phone box call he made.

He pushed it to the back of his mind, though. Right now, he was on the highway, driving at a ridiculous speed to get to Blaine: worrying about Blaine wasn't at all sensible at this precise moment.

Arriving at Blaine's house, seeing his car on the drive, added to Kurt's sigh of relief upon discovering the door wasn't locked. At least he could speak to Blaine without a door separating them. And at least his parents weren't there to be a constant interruption.

"Blaine?" He called out, but there was no response. Unsurprising, really, when he considered it was 11pm, and Blaine was most likely asleep.

So he crept up the stairs, locking the front door as an afterthought, and made his way to Blaine's bedroom, a path he knew all too well, thankfully, as the house was frighteningly dark with the lights off.

Blaine's light was still on, however, so he assumed that maybe Blaine had headphones in? He could have just not heard?

Kurt pushed the door open to Blaine's bedroom, peering his head round and spotting his mobile on the floor, appearing haphazardly dropped there.

He looked up to the bed, expecting to see a Blaine-sized lump there, who was maybe just too lazy to turn off the light. He didn't ever expect to see the crimson stained sheets, nor did he want to realise that it was Blaine's blood.

But it was. Which meant that Blaine was hurt.

His Blaine.

Kurt's vision immediately blurred as tears welled in his eyes, the saltiness stinging as he made his way to check in the bathroom, his hand covering his mouth and muting the sobs that had already begun racking his body.

Rounding the corner in his… ex-boyfriend? …boyfriend? …his Blaine's room, he glanced into the bathroom and saw the lifeless figure.

He lay, face down in a crimson stain, body crumpled as his torso fell over his legs. He was shirtless, pants-less, but Kurt had never been less turned on than in this moment.

And he saw it: **KURT.**

His name covered Blaine's scarlet body in scabbing succession. **KURT.**

**KURT**

"BLAINE!" His body moved subconsciously towards the dark haired boy, screaming out as his hand touched the cold body, collapsing in pain and breathlessness as the realisation swooped over him.

Blaine.

His Blaine, lay down on the floor, in his own blood, still, lifeless, and so tragically, horrifically, unchangeably dea-

No

He couldn't say it, wouldn't say it.

Here was the boy he was going to love his whole life, going to marry, have children with, grow old with.

And he's lay, lifeless on the floor. Cold, irreversibly …dead.


End file.
